


What A Catch, Carl

by ChristineRose



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eye Trauma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Short & Not So Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:15:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristineRose/pseuds/ChristineRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’ve got troubled thoughts, and the self-esteem to match" (What A Catch, Donnie; Fall Out Boy).</p><p>Takes place between 6x12-6x13.<br/>Carl deals with the aftereffects of the bullet to the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What A Catch, Carl

            Carl Grimes was not a vain person. He had never really gotten the chance to be. When he was a kid he could care less about his appearance, only dressing up and combing his hair down when his mother commanded him to do so. By the age he would have started to seriously think about it there were walkers about. Sure, he wasn’t going to lie, the thought of how he looked crossed his mind once or twice. Especially when he had noticed how clean the Alexandrians looked in comparison to his family. However, given everything that happened in his day to day life, he found it pretty damn useless to expend any energy upon his looks.

            That was until the roamers broke down the walls. Until he watched the Anderson family get torn apart by an angry horde. Until he found himself with an injury that destroyed his eye, and at least a quarter of his face. Now, looks were all he could think about.

            He prodded at the bandage, wincing slightly as he looked upon a mirror. Yeah, at least a quarter. Maybe even a third. _Ugh._ Michonne, his Dad, everyone was out and taking care of business. Carl had stayed behind, to look after Judith and protect Alexandria. Or, that was what he had told his father. In actuality, he just wanted to avoid the stares from everyone they were going to meet. He had gotten damn sick of it from the Alexandrians alone, he wouldn’t be able to stand it from all of Jesus’ people.

            _A kid with a messed up face probably wouldn’t make the best first impression,_ he told his Dad, shrugging like it was nothing. Rick had quirked his head to the side, a brief bout of concern flashing in his face before he smoothed out his expression. They had both gone silent after that, because really, what were you supposed to say?

Carl would have to change the padding soon. He avoided doing it himself whenever possible, preferring Michonne or even his Dad to do it. The less time he spent looking at the aftereffects of the bullet wound the better off he was. But, he had to, lest it get infected. He didn’t dare ask one of the other Alexandrians to help him out. Sure, Denise would have been happy to do it, but it was bad enough that people who he had known for years had to be subjected to…this _._

He prodded at his cheek, turning his face this way and that to get a look at it. Had he always had that many freckles? There were too many. The minimal light in the room casted eerie shadows over his face, exaggerating the purple, bruise-like bags under his good eye. Carl looked at the eye critically; it was the only decent part of his appearance. The only decent part of his appearance, and a trait passed down from his father, and he had lost half of it. Figures. Brushing a hand through his hair, he watched as the strands fell back into place. It was too long, too shaggy, the wrong shade of brown, and it was perfect walker-grabbing material. He should cut it. It would be safer for both himself and everyone around him.

            He wasn’t going to cut it. _How selfish,_ he thought to himself.

            Unbuttoning his shirt, moving to grab something more comfortable for the night, he couldn’t help but take a glance at the mirror or two as he did so. The years of malnutrition had done a number on him. He had always been lean, but his lack of muscle seemed especially prominent tonight. He was too short. He wasn’t sure how tall he was, but he was too short.

            So maybe he was a bit vain.

            Grabbing a shirt, quickly donning it, he pointedly refused to look at how it fit him. Bandage. That was his priority now. Shutting his other eye, he grabbed the gauze and unwound it gently, dropping it and letting it flutter to the floor once he was done. He removed the pad, dropping it as well. It was just him now, just Carl, no barrier between himself and the rest of the world.

            _On the count of three, you’ll open your eyes. Well, eye,_ he commanded himself.

He counted to three. The world was black.

            Carl sighed. He was a coward. Perhaps it was best that he had stayed behind while the others had left.

            _On the count of four, you’ll open your eye._  

            He flinched as soon as he managed to do so. It looked terrible. Denise, wonderful Doctor she was, was not a plastic surgeon. Hell, he had been surprised that she had been able to save his life, let alone that he was now walking and talking. He should have felt grateful, appreciative, but he just felt…well, he wasn’t sure how he felt now.

            Initially, Carl had been angry. Angry at the world, at himself, at Ron and his Dad and Michonne and Judith – _fucking_ Judith _, who wasn’t even able to walk yet, perfect daughter with two damn perfect eyes._ He felt guilty about those thoughts later, that he had blamed his small family, however fleetingly. It had all just been bad circumstances, really, it was no one’s _fault_. Mostly he had just been angry in general, though. It was just so damn unfair that he wanted to punch something, or someone, or sometimes just cry and scream. After that, he just felt drained. Numb. Like he wanted to go to sleep for a long time, damn the consequences.

            Carl wanted to stop existing. He didn’t want to die, and yet he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to what would have happened if Denise wasn’t able to save him. Hell, he would even wonder at occasionally if Hershel hadn’t been around all that while ago to save his life the first time he had been shot. He certainly wouldn’t be here, in this moment, hands balled in fists and glaring at his reflection in the mirror. Like that would somehow piece together his shattered face.

            He shuddered, almost cold. What would his father or Michonne say if they found out what he had been feeling? _Selfish,_ he repeated.

            “Suck it up,” he told himself. “Wallowing isn’t going to do anything.”

            After another deep, cleansing breath, Carl went to search the drawer for everything he’d need. He’d redress his wound, practice a bit with the PT ball, make sure Judith was good for the night, and then go to bed. Nothing else he could do. Grabbing at one of the pads that would cover his eye, Carl jumped out of his skin when he heard a scream. A familiar scream. Judith’s scream.

            Instinct had him running, grabbing at the knife that was always on his belt and dropping at the dressings as he flew down the hall. Carl was in Judith’s dark room in moments, going over to her crib and sighing in relief when he found that she wasn’t in any danger. He put his knife away, grateful that for now he didn’t need it. She had been teething recently and would wake up in random spurts in the night, often in pain. He could fix this. He could be useful.

            “Come ‘ere, Judy,” Carl murmured, picking her up gently as she wrapped her chubby, little arms around his neck. “I’ll get you something,” he assured her as he bounced her gently. The screams shifted into hiccupping sobs, Judith ducking her head onto his neck. He continued his litany of _shhs_ and _it’s okays_ as he moved to the kitchen, grabbing at the frozen, plastic ring he had for these occasions.

            “I’ve got you,” he muttered as he gave her the ring. Her little fingers wrapped around it greedily, instantly sticking the device into her mouth. She cooed softly and Carl sighed, hoping he was in the clear for the night. He brushed her hair away from her face, giving the top of her head a small kiss. Hopefully she’d fall back to sleep easily enough – sometimes after these episodes she would stubbornly refuse to be lulled to bed, and both of them would wake up tired and cranky the next day.

            Carl looked down as he heard her stop sucking, prepared to grab the teething device from her and exchange it for the next one. He was surprised to see her face screw up instantly, a piercing wail shredding through the kitchen. Shifting to rock her gently, her cries echoed through the house. Judith never yelled this much. Was she hurt, sick? Could Denise care for kids? He felt at her forehead. She didn’t have a fever. Then what? Did she have some kind of injury that he hadn’t noticed earlier?

            “It’s okay,” he whispered, moving to pull her a bit closer. He hated when she cried; all Carl wanted to do was comfort her. She pulled back instantly as he adjusted her, nearly squirming out of his grasp.

            “Judy, what’s wrong?” he asked, desperation tinged in his tone. He wasn’t sure why he looked up, but when he did he understood. Saw the glimpse of the face that Judy had been seeing, distorted in the glass of the windowpane.

            _Oh._

He understood.

            Carl moved swiftly with Judith in his arms, one hand at her head to keep her safe, back to Judith’s room. Setting her down gently, he covered his injury with one hand as he rubbed circles onto Judith’s back in an attempt to soothe her. She continued for a while, but with Carl’s disfigurement out of her sight her screams again quieted into small sobs, and then little gasps, and then nothing as she finally tired herself out and laid back down.

            Carl understood why she had reacted as she did. And he couldn’t blame her.

            “I love you, Judy,” Carl murmured at her sleeping form. He wanted to lean down to give her another kiss on the head, but he didn’t dare risk waking her. In a haze he walked back to his room, grabbing at the PT ball. He hadn’t done his exercises yet today.

            He squeezed, throwing it against the ground. Against the wall made too much noise. Just barely he managed to catch it, his depth perception had been screwed up since…everything. Throwing it again, he missed it this time as it came back up. _My hand was too far right,_ he corrected methodically, emotionlessly. The ball rolled across the room and he retrieved it, staring at the small, yellow thing. Glancing up, he caught his reflection in the mirror again.

            _I’m just another monster too,_ he remembered telling Michonne all that while ago. _Well, you finally look it,_ he thought.

            He threw the ball with all of his might, watching as the mirror shattered and ball bounced away again. All was silent.

            “Looks like I’m not gonna beat this world, huh, Mom?” He asked aloud.

            No one answered.

**Author's Note:**

> I was a little upset with the way TWD writers/AMC handled Carl's emotional reaction to his injury, so I wrote this. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
